Loon Lament
by estrafalaria103
Summary: AU ending to Swan Song. Because really. . .jumping into a hole? That's the best you can do, Supernatural?
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Okay, I know that there's a whole slew of people who loved the finale. I am not one of them. I thought it was trite, and self-important, and anti-climactic. I'm fine with the beginning -- the demon blood drinking was appropriately disgusting, Cas was adorable, the speeches were as sappy as anticipated, and Mark Pellegrino knocked it out of the park. It was the battle that killed me. So. Rewriting the battle. **

**It was just an empty field. A few, lonely crows flew overhead, and a gentle breeze made the grass dance. Two men stood in the middle of the field, both young, both with empty, clouded eyes.**

"It's good to see you, Michael."

The taller one was the first to speak, his voice the dull, calm roar of an ocean in the distance. There was power in his voice, and pain.

"You, too."

"It's been too long." Despite the words of welcome, neither man moves. Their hands are balled at their sides. The grass sways a little more, and beneath their feet, the dead cry out. They can feel it coming, in the same way that the thousands who have died beneath the twisters can feel it, in the same way that the homeless man dying of cold in Detroit can feel it.

"Can you believe it's finally here?"

"No. Not really."

But they both believe it. Neither is surprised. They've been waiting centuries for just this moment, for just this place. What he means, is that he can't believe it's happening like this. Can't believe that his brother has dressed up in his Sunday best, and he's just wearing last Thursday's dirty overalls. Can't believe that nobody in Lawrence has recognized the signs, can't believe that their father is still, _still_ absent.

"A part of me wishes we didn't have to do this."

"Yeah. Me, too."

Neither one of them is lying. The tall one moves, finally. The slightest twitch, the tiniest movement of a hand. He's been away from home longer. He's forgotten the strength in stillness.

"Then why are we?"

"I have no choice, after what you did."

The words come easily. Words that the angel has heard his entire life, passed down, hearsay from the angels who had been in Heaven for the whole of it. He hadn't been. He'd been tending the garden with Joshua – tending the people, really. Teaching Adam and Eve how to care for the thousand different plants and animals. He'd returned home to hear that his little brother had rebelled, had been cast out. And then he'd been sent down, again, to the garden, again. He'd been handed a sword and told – ordered – never to let anything in the garden again. He'd been handed a flaming sword to kill his brother.

"What if it's not my fault?"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Think about it. Dad made everything. Which means that he made me who I am. God wanted the Devil."

No. That can't be right. That isn't right. God is good, and God is great and. . .and nobody knows the mind of God.

"So why?" his brother is moving again, in that glorious meatsuit, all earnest eyes and placid voice. Lucifer has always been calm. "Why make us fight? I just can't figure out the point. . .we're going to kill each other. And for what? One of Dad's test, and we don't even know the answer."

But Michael knows, remembers. His father does not give tests. Lucifer has given tests and temptations, but never their father. He closes his ears and his heart, a little more, to his brother's pleas.

"We're brothers. Let's just walk off the chessboard."

"I'm sorry."

And he is. He's sorry that the fight has come to this. He's sorry that the Apocalypse may just destroy the world that his father so loves. He's sorry that – dressed in this second rate body – he may not be able to win. He wonders, briefly, if his brother has a back-up plan. Has he even thought past this battle?

"I'm a good son, and I have my orders."

"But you don't have to follow them."

"What, you think I'm going to rebel? Now? I'm not like you."

His brother's face closes off, just the tiniest bit. A drop of hope dies, and Michael hates himself a little for taking some of the light from his brother's eyes. Luci has always loved the light – that is Father's greatest cruelty, trapping him away from all that is bright and beautiful.

"Please, Michael . . ."

There is the plea, and Michael forces himself to remember the moment when his father placed the burning sword in his hand. Forces himself to remember the sense of power, and the burning, crippling pain as angelic flesh seared to the burning metal. Pure goodness and human technology. . .anathema.

"You know," he says, thinking of sacrifice, of blood on a cross, of two brothers nearly torn apart by Luci's selfish desires, "you haven't changed a bit, little brother. Always blaming everybody but yourself. We were together. We were happy. But you betrayed me – all of us – and you made our father leave."

"No one makes Dad do anything."

Michael thinks that may be true, but he also remembers returning home, to emptiness, to tears and accusations.

"You're a monster, Lucifer. And I have to kill you."

All of the light has died in his brother's eyes, now, and it is only cold, deep, and dark – the emptiness of hell that stares back at him.

"If that's the way. . .then I'd like to see you try."

Michael opens his fist, prepared, with a jolt of fear, to accept that crown of thorns from his father again, that searing pain, though he wonders whether this body will be able to accept it. He's not sure it's strong enough.

This isn't the way it is supposed to go, these two mis-matched vessels in an empty cemetery. It is not the way that it has been foretold.

It is almost a relief, then, when battle is delayed by the sound of earthly wailing, a twisted mass of black metal, and a cocky, impertinent youth learning out of the travesty to say "Sorry. Am I interrupting something?"

It is almost a relief, but it is not, because Michael knows himself, and he knows the Devil, and he knows that this night, in Lawrence, Kansas, the world must end.


	2. Chapter 2

The human walks forward, determined. Michael has to admire that, at the same time that he disdains it.

"We need to talk."

"Dean," Lucifer's lips twitch a bit, but his eyes are still dead. "Even for you, this is a whole new mountain of stupid."

"I'm not talking to you. I'm talking to Sam."

Michael is annoyed, now, no longer relieved of the interruption. This speck, this insolent fool, has betrayed a promise made to heaven, betrayed a promise to obey and serve. He has been given a mission, and turned it down, selfishly insisting on his own free will over the lives of every human on earth.

"You're no longer the vessel, Dean," the angel says, and he hopes that his ineffectual human voice does not crack. Because it isn't the truth, and he isn't made for lying. The older Winchester is still the better choice, and he can feel his grace reaching toward the body, clamoring to escape the weakness that has confined it. "You have no right to be here," and his voice is stronger on that one, because that is true.

Green eyes turn and piece him in a way that human eyes should not. "Adam," Dean Winchester says, and within him Michael feels what might be a twinge of consciousness. He absentlymindedly brushes it aside, squashes it. This body no longer has need of any soul but his.

"Adam, if you're in theire somewhere, I am so sorry."

"Adam isn't home right now," Michael says, and he tries not to feel a twinge of twisted joy at the wounded look that fleets across the hunters' face. Angels are not vindictive.

"Well, then, you're next on my list, buttercup."

Michael thinks that Dean Winchester must have a very long list, indeed. As the human turns to face Lucifer again – turns to face the wasted remains of what was once his brother, was once _Michael's_ brother, the archangel considers. Perhaps it is still possible to wrangle a "yes" out of the impudent human. Perhaps the day can still be won, the tornados stopped, the temperature in Detroit. . .well, it is too late for Detroit. But Dean is still walking, and Michael can see the way that Lucifer is tensing up, as though he is fighting with something, something within himself. . .

"You little maggot," Michael seethes, because even now, even at the end, the little Winchester is trying to destroy everything. He is _meant_ to destroy Lucifer, and if he does not. . .if he does not, then he condemns the world. . ."you are no longer a part of this story!"

"Hey, ass-butt!"

And then Michael makes a mistake, perhaps his fist mistake, perhaps not. He turns at the sound of a new voice, and is hit with flame and pain and his face burns and his eyes and his throat and his voice and

And then he is, suddenly and abruptly, apart from everything. He watches from everywhere as his vessel falls to pieces.

He curses Dean Winchester.

He curses the Winchester's angel.

He curses his brother.

And, for the first time in his life, he curses his Father, who could have ended all of this with his mere presence.

He seethes, and even as he sets his vessel to renewing itself, to knitting itself together, somewhere safe away from unschooled hunters and rebel angels, he watches.

"Ass-butt?" Dean Winchester asks. Castiel shrugs his shoulders, and Michael finds joy in the way that wings do not follow that oh-so human gesture.

"He'll be back – and upset – but you got your five minutes."

Lucifer has stopped the warring, has won whatever argument was raging within him. He steps forward, one hand lifted.

"Castiel," he says, and his voice is no longer the roar of distant oceans, but the much more immediate threat of thunderstorms. "Did you just Molotov my brother with holy fire?"

The rebel steps back, raises its hand, tries to somehow defend itself. Laughs, weakly, a human twitch, born of too much time spent with mudmonkeys. "no" he says weakly, but it is not enough, and he explodes into a million tiny pieces.

Michael takes a small bit of joy in this, as he forces arms back onto torso.

Dean Winchester's face is a study in controlled emotion, his jaw fighting back cries, his eyes forcing down tears. He twitches, once, twice, and hazel eyes bleed red. For one moment Michael thinks that it may be enough. Perhaps it is enough, this murder of an angel, to cause the weak mortal to finally fight, to finally take responsibility. But he does not. He does not say yes. He does not lift a fist. He just takes a step forward, tentative and scared, and says,

"Sammy? Sammy, can you hear me?"

And there is no doubt to Michael, still banished, still furiously trying to force a weak vessel back to battle, that Samuel Winchester still lives within his body. There is no doubt, as Lucifer's vessel tenses up, and eyes flashes hatred/love/anger/fear/anger/HATE that there is still something very human there. But Lucifer is still in control. Who, after all, can fight an archangel?

"You know," Lucifer says, and his normal calm is absent now. "I tried to be nice." Hands reach out, and Samuel is present in the gentle caress of leather lapels. "But you have been a massive pain in my ass."

And then Dean's body is flying through the air, and Michael can _feel_ shards of glass splice into tender palms as flesh collides with glass. It is close now, and he almost chooses to leave behind the burnt remains of Adam Mulligan, almost chooses to wage full war on Dean Winchester's psyche, to gain control of a stronger vessel, to guarantee victory. But though victory over Lucifer would be assured, victory over the hunter is still uncertain.

A gunshot rings out, a pair of snapped fingers, and Bobby Singer is dead. A shame. A good man. His body falls. Michael frowns. No Reaper comes to collect his soul.

Dean Winchester screams. And Lucifer, once again in control, turns.

"Sammy? Are you in there?"

"Oh, he's in here all right," Lucifer grinds out, and his voice is harsh and angry. "He's gonna feel the snap of your bones. Every. Single. One."


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Okay, here's where I really diverge from the show. Because, as much as I love the Impala, does it really have that much emotional charge for Sam? For Dean, sure, I buy it, but Sam? **_**Sam**_**? Who DID have a home, for four years, at Stanford? Who hated sleeping in the car? Who was never allowed to drive it? Who DOUCHED IT UP when Dean was in Hell? Who at one point was turned INTO the Impala by Gabriel? I am sorry, but this I don't accept.**

Michael gives up on his useless vessel. It will take too long to reconnect all of Adam Mulligan's organs and tissues and bones. Too much time, when Lucifer is beyond reason now, when he is a well of betrayal and pain and hurt. But the Apocalypse must be fought today, and it must be fought on this ground, and Michael is watching as his greatest weapon is slowly pulverized.

"Sam, it's okay," the righteous man gasps, even as his nosebreaks, and one cheekbone caves in. "It's okay. I'm here."

_Say yes_ Michael breathes, in between the pain and the hurt.

"I'm not gonna leave you," Dean says, denying. Lucifer's first return. A tooth is knocked loose.

_Say yes_, Michael's voice whispers through the crows overhead and the wind that has begun screaming in the forgotten cemetery. _Your brother is lost. We must stop mine. _

"I'm not gonna leave you," Dean Winchester's voice cracks, and Michael is not certain whether the tears leaking out of one eye are from physical, or emotional pain. There is no recognition in Lucifer's eyes, as flat and empty as hell.

_Say yes_, Michael says again, even as the fist falls, even as one eye, already swollen shut, is smushed and destroyed. _I can fix this_, Michael thinks, surveying the damage. _Lucifer hasn't even gotten started_.

He can feel Dean remember, recoil from, memories of hell, or the slow agonies of torture. The torture here, this day, is in being murdered by a brother. Even so, it will take a long time. Lucifer is a master. Michael can feel Winchester's resolve crumble. He forces in other memories . . .a pretty brunette woman, and a young boy. A mother and daughter. A black psychic. People who will be hurt by Lucifer, people he will destroyed. People he has already destroyed. John Winchester. Mary Winchester.

Lucifer stops for a moment, stands, a cruel smile settling across thin lips. He looks down at his handiwork for a moment, at the shattered visage and the slowing heartbeat. Glances down at his bloodied knuckles, shudders delicately.

_Say yes_ Michael says, and he is a bit too loud now. Dean's arms come up to shield his ears, but it is too late, blood is streaming steadily out of him, now. His entire face is a map of destruction. Lucifer does not notice. He is reaching into a pocket, pulling out a rumpled tissue. Begins wiping blood of knuckles.

"We're just getting started, Dean," Lucifer says idly. "After all, I need something to kill the time until my brother returns."

_Yes_ Dean says/thinks. Michael feels him try to mouth the words, feels the rush of agony as broken jaw and lost teeth stop. It doesn't matter. Michael doesn't need the rush of wind as permission. He flies into Dean Winchester's body, and begins healing the man from the inside out.

Lucifer still doesn't notice. He puts the tissue back. His face lights with the slightest touch of surprise, and his fingers come out holding something by a light chain.

"What is this—"

And then Michael _feels_ as he is abruptly shoved to one side. He gasps in pain as he collides with the side of Winchester's head, as memories surge through

_Christmas_

This was for Dad

Bright eyes, young eyes, still full of hope. Pitiful wrapping paper, the classifieds section of last week's news

I want you to have it

Trembling hands. Barbies and sparkling wands set aside. A Charlie Brown tree in the background, no Santa, no father.

Thanks, thanks

_A hospital_

Where

Ventilators, pain, bandages and IV lines. And one cracked, splinted hand, reaching out, searching, blindly. Hazel eyes meet green.

Here it is, Dean. I saved it for you

Whispers of fingers

Thanks

_A funeral_

What are you doing, boy?

Two men stand in front of the grave, but it is the wrong two men.

He'll want this. . .wherever he is. . .

We should burn the bones, boy

NO. Bobby, just. . .no

_A Hospital_

I don't have anything like that.

Personal pain forgotten. Curiosity. Wonder.

I know. You don't.

Turn, half shift, a full circle now, from wheelchair to angel to man. Eyes glance down, meaning, up again. Oceans and land.

What, this?

May I borrow it?

Denial Pain Fear

No!

Dean, give it to me.

Alright. . .just. . ._don't_ lose it.

Betrayal Love Family

_A hotel_

Dropped in a wastebasket

Lost eyes

Betrayal

A hand reaching out, picking it up

_A Cemetery_

"You kept it, Sammy."

"I knew you didn't mean. . ."

Michael is screaming now, outraged, and he can feel his brother screaming nearby. The Winchester brothers drop to his knees, curl in on themselves. Michael grabs his sword, wields it in one hand, fights through the cage that Dean has trapped him in.

"It's okay, Dean," Sam – Sam, not Lucifer – gasps, and struggles to his feet. In one hand he still clasps the amulet, loosely, the charm dangling between white knuckles. "It's gonna be okay. I've got him."

Sam reaches out and Dean – Dean, not Michael – reaches into a pocket for the rings. Michael fights his arm out, struggles not to let fingers clench around cold silver, tries to force them down deeper in the pocket, but Dean is fighting back, tooth, and nail, and the rings come out. He is grunting now, sweating, but he is still winning.

Michael curses him.

"Bvtmon tabges babylon," Sam gasps, and there is sweat running down his face now, too, and Michael is proud of his brother, proud that he, too, is not letting up the fight so easily, is not going to allow the brothers to just win.

The rings surge together, fly together, as one, the way they are meant to. The settle on the grass and then the grass is no longer there, is sucked into an immense hole, a vacuum, and Michael sets his feet in tight, refuses to move, and this much he can do. Even Dean is shaking now, afraid, and Michael uses that fear. He will not land in the pit. He will _not_.

"Dean. . .I. . ."

And Michael knows, now, finally, when it truly matters, that his brother has won back, if not complete control, enough. Sam Winchester will not throw himself into that pit. The Winchesters are out of moves, they are out of chances. He can wait. He curls in on himself a little, allows Dean to think he has earned back control.

"Sammy. . ." Dean holds out a hand. Michael recognizes the slump in the shoulders. The Winchester has given up. The defeat is in him again. A slight shimmer of joy floods through the angels, wings unfurl. Just a moment. Just an instant. Dean stiffens, and Michael pulls wings back inside.

The brother walk back toward the Impala. Dean's breath catches. He opens a door, slides in. Michael allows it. The brothers may need this shattered pile of twisted scrapmetal, but he does not. He reaches out toward Satan, finds him a roiling mass of emotion across the seat.

"Bitch," Dean says, but his voice breaks in the middle of the word. Sam turns to face him, and Lucifer explodes out.

It is time, Michael thinks, and he reaches out to take control himself, to end this battle, but Dean has already turned the key, has already pressed down the pedal.

Michael feels his grace flow through – finally – a perfect vessel, just as the Impala swan dives over the edge of the hole.

"Jerk," Satan spits out. Above them, the earth heals over.


	4. Chapter 4

**Okay, this one's kind of lame, but. . .I was also pissy about Chuck-As-God. So. Here.**

Castiel does not know how it is that he comes to be sitting on Chuck's couch. He does not know how it is that the writer does not hear him, is just crouched intently over a glowing computer.

"Endings are hard," the writer mutters. "Any chapped-ass monkey with a keyboard can poop out a beginning, but endings are impossible. You try to tie up every loose end, but you never can."

Castiel stands, comforted a bit by the familiar rustling of his trenchcoat.

"The fans are always gonna bitch. There's always gonna be holes. And since it's the ending, it's all supposed to add up to something. I'm telling you, they're a raging pain in the ass."

Castiel is behind him now, can read the words over the writer's shoulder. Everything smells like liquor and cigarettes.

"So what's it all add up to? It's hard to say. But for me. . .for Sam and Dean. I think they did all right. Up against good, evil, angels, devils, destiny, and god himself, they made their own choice. They chose family. Isn't that kind the whole point?"

"That is shit," Castiel says, and the writer screams and jumps about four feet into the air.

"But you're. . .you're. . ." the writer turns back to the computer, scrolls back several pages to where it is written "Castiel shattered into a thousand red spheres of blood guts and gore". "See!" he says, pointing at the computer. "You died!"

"Yes," Castiel says. He runs his hands over his shoulders, twitches them, is surprised to feel the shadow of wings. "God must have brought me back. New and improved."

"What. . .but. . ." Chuck giggles nervously. "Talk about deus ex machina! Get it. . .God. . .anyway. What about Sam and Dean, then?"

Castiel frowns, reaches out his consciousness, seeking for that familiar brightness in the world. . .cannot find it. "I. . .do not know," Castiel says.

"Oh," Chuck sighs, sits down at his seat, gestures toward the computer. "You're right," he says. "It is shit. Wished they passed out talent when they gave prophecies."

"Are there any more?" Castiel asks. Chuck shuts his eyes, shakes his head.

"No," he groans. "Nothing but the start of a killer hangover. I think it's over, man. I really think it is."

Castiel is not so sure about that. There's no doubt – endings are hard. He glances into a mirror, sees renewed resolve. Thinks. . .somewhere, Crowley stills holds Bobby's soul. Somewhere God is still holed up, still hiding. Thinks that the world is missing a bit of green, a bit of hazel, a bit of leather and motor oil and brotherly love. . .and, well, he pulled Dean out of hell once, he can surely do it again.

Nothing really ends, does it?


End file.
